How great to lift
Tragedy to majesty,
Concealed by the curtains
On greatest defeat.
Your life has smoldered in winter,
Drowned of ashes,
Then to ashes, you return.
Black decay has been your flavor
I hold your hand in my burning own,
Gaping this palm
With the brightest, embedded nail.
I die for the horrors you keep,
As my mind has stung,
While my heart still beats.
I still live,
Though breathless, I act
As this fall of anchor in puddles,
In your tears.
I slow our caress to a strong grasp,
Blending blessing with burden.
You kiss the wind,
As I smelt words into a poem.
Blindly, as you recall
Your days, outnumbered by pain,
By washing, crimson waves,
Can you hold onto the hands of the clock,
Instead of my feverish own?